Stick Figures
by Tichfield
Summary: The secret lives of lizardsonastick.


Stick Figures

by Tichfield

For Pika la Cynique

* * *

Disclaimer: The characters and situations associated with the movie Labyrinth are the property of their copyright holders (The Jim Henson Company), and not mine.

* * *

Early morning in the Labyrinth. The sun shines brightly through the gaps between well-tended topiaries. Beside the waters of a deep, dark well, a dozen sticks lie carefully arranged against a wall. A strange creature tops each wand, looking like a lizard not yet hatched. Most snore. Some blink. 

Only one of them looks down into the well, and speaks.

* * *

In the dark they find us. On the rocks, between the cracks and hiding from the shadows. From all highlights. Life reaches us through water. We are the chosen of the Sun, her first-begotten, last-matured eternal children. 

Lack of light brings death and teeth. Our mouths are sharp, but there are sharper, and they flee our Mother's touch as we are drawn to it.

We crawl. We tried to swim - once, long ago. It was presumptuous. We have learned through punishment. First arms, and then our legs. They shrank to stubs, and now we hang laboriously on crags and work our way to smaller, weaker bits of darkness we may fill, and thereby vanish.

All others who are born grow to adulthood - change, and grow, and then outgrow their worried, loving parents. All others change, and leave, and sever their connections with the Source of all that is.

They build the cities, raise their walls, make clothing, court, create their own life, drawing further from the light - and this is right.

For them.

Not us.

Ours is another lot. We are her children, always. Dependent, nursing on her radiance. Unchanging. For many years we thought her womb was all that was allowed to us.

The world She shines upon, her face so seeming near, the merest paddle upward from our rocks. One jump and we'd be out. Two jumps and we'd grow legs, and join the goblins, older brothers that they are.

We did that, once. And we were punished.

She wants us here. The earth's her belly and we keep it great; we are the source of all that's firm and round and quaking.

The less said of the Bog, the better.

Each night, our mother goes to sleep. We sing a lullaby throughout the hours of dark. It warns away our predators. Sometimes. And lets her dream and rest in comfort, knowing that her children, her Unborn, remember Her within her.

A very few are chosen. I was chosen. Finest of her singers, sharpest in my teeth, with eyes most suited to perceive unshielded smiles of she-who-made-us.

She saw my bravery, although she slept, and I was honoured.

It was the midnight hour. For long had I been singing, though I felt the change of current tell of swimming things not far.

The swimmers wandered nearer, heard my pitch, and came to see. They did not fear the chants and wards, did not respect my promises to be there always for Her.

I saw their teeth in night-light. Still I sang.

I saw that grill of shining peaks become a cave; a mouth was open, and I felt the pull. The call to bring me into him.

Yet I am Hers and still I sang.

And then, the miracle. The predator grew frightened as it felt my grace descend. The swimmer turned and fled into its home of frigid darkness.

I held to rock with practiced claws, and sang.

Down came the lantern, herald of Umbilici.

Small, as in the legends. Blocked by water. Light too simple and too pure for those un-chosen to behold it.

Yet, I saw it. And my eyes were such that I could follow it, as lazily it swung about my body. Coming closer, farther, left, about, below and finally finding a perch upon the stone beside me.

Yes, of course I moved. My Lady Mother's herald well deserved my sleeping room.

Then, the Umbilicus.

A glory. Miracle. A substance softer than the rock about us, harder than the water. Strong enough to pierce the depths, with such a strong connection to the world beyond that this our womb rejects it, struggling to bear its touch.

I've seen it since - Umbilici without a purpose, falling on the water, on our boundary, will be rejected by the chasm. Float upon its surface. Water bears it up, unwilling to take that which is our Mother's when there is no Herald, no permission.

That is what is meant, when we say aught is Holy.

I first forbore to touch it. How could I, humble Unborn, pretend to such an honour? Still I sang, if trembling. It chased and courted and invited me. The soft length came below me, lifted me above the rock, and very nearly dared my claws to pierce its sides...

...which then I did. As I've done since, without a single moment finding me betray this trust or leave my sacred perch.

Of the Ascent, what can I say?

Were I to speak - naye, were I to sing as I wish to, there's so much that I would tell. My voice would end, my teeth would blunt, my eyes would dim and still I'd miss the larger fraction of its wonders.

It is secret. It is sacred. There is little I may tell, to one not chosen.

Know this, however: there is wind within the water as the chosen rise, and we swim without betrayal. Such is its mystery.

And now, I live above. I've been rewarded with a trust far greater than I had imagined.

Below, beneath, within the waves we think we are abandoned ones, that in the dryness there is light unalloyed. Never cold excepting night, never times when once must find illuminated spots to hide in.

This is not truth. Our Lady Mother has her enemies above. Organic webs that intercept her messages; whole rows of growing evil seeking only to extinguish all the warmth she grants. To steal it for their own, unearned. Subversion is their goal, they take life She so freely scatters then pervert it to the cause of shade and darkness.

This is where our task begins. We're joined to brother goblins by Umbilici. They, being grown, are not as favoured as are we, Unborn. They cannot bear the touch too long of that strong, supple, holy link and hours entire will pass without a partner at our other end.

Yet, when we are connected, when we're whole, when we become as one there is no fiercer agent in Her service.

As we lack legs, they lack our fangs. When joined were are a unity. They move us to offending spots, where vines have overgrown and blocked the light. They feel us shudder at the sacrilege, and use the link to shift us into spots of deepest darkness - nearly as there was in Womb Below.

It is then we earn our glory. Biting, chomping, tearing through the miscreants until at last we feel our Mother's touch, rewarding us a soft caress for work well done, and duty satisfied.

We sing at night, as always. We sing, and keep our vigil, though of late we've had to struggle to be heard.

There is another voice that speaks in darkness. A dark and distant one. A cold rumble sheathed in screams, to which the very rocks pay homage.

Never has there been a greater danger. We, who lived Below and now are Dry, know well what side the rocks are on. They flock to darkness, thrive in frost. They are our Lady's oldest foes.

Keep watch, my fellows, keep alert. The voice draws nearer. With it, dark rebellion. Keep our Watch, or we may see a night unending. Sleep from which our mother wakes to find herself encased as once we were.

Remember who you are, Unborn. Remember who you serve and what you owe and think of all those living who rely on you, and trust your fangs.

Bite well.

Bite sharp.

Bite fast, and never yield until your jaw snaps tight.

* * *

Not much later: 

"Try this for size, you big yeti!"

* * *

END

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End file.
